


A House Divided

by obsidiangrey



Series: States 'Verse [11]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Civil War, American History, Gen, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, the civil war was not a war that should have ever been fought, the confederacy is not a good man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-02-18 08:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13096554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsidiangrey/pseuds/obsidiangrey
Summary: Over decades that stretched into centuries, personifications on the American continent did what none of their kind ever seemed to do: they created a family, sure that the bonds forged between them in the fires of revolution could never be broken apart. But history, as always, takes its own inexorable course -- and the American Civil War, bloodiest yet in the nation's short existence, was a long, long time in coming.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my project for NaNoWriMo in 2017; at more than fifty thousand words, it still isn't _finished_ , but the bulk of the story is written and fleshed out. The rest of it will be done soon enough.
> 
> I want to preface this by saying that I do not support racism in any form, and I do not seek to glorify anything about the Civil War. It was bloody, and costly, and the fact that the only civil war in my country's history was fought over the right to own other human beings can most kindly be described as appalling, and can more accurately be described with a number of other terms. This story goes into the history surrounding the war, and the politics of it, and the complex relationships of these fictional characters regarding the war. It will cover some of before and after the war, as well as the entire duration of it. Opinions of these characters re: certain events are not my opinions, and negative opinions are portrayed as such.
> 
> This isn't a happy story, given its content, but its ending is, I certainly hope, at least somewhat uplifting. This is a story about family, and about how personifications interact with one another coming into direct conflict with how they are required to interact as the politics of government demand it -- ultimately, it's about the _survival_ of family, despite it all.
> 
> Reading of the rest of the States 'Verse is not required -- but I'd be very happy if you did, if you have the time.

_February, 1776  
_ _Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, British America_

The stone steps which lead to the privy from out the back of their new home in Philadelphia were probably not the cleanest things to be sitting on; her clothes would need to be washed, later, and though there was no snow on the ground, the air was bitterly cold. The chill from the stones underneath her seeped through her skirts and numbed the underside of her legs-- and yet, Georgia found all of it preferable to her other options. Preferable to sitting in the house and trying to find common ground with her brothers. Preferable to lurking near the Georgian delegates when America went to visit the Continental Congress, knowing they were her people, and knowing that her people would hate her. Preferable to sitting in the shared room with her sisters, North and South Carolina either ignoring her in silence or talking about her like she wasn't there.

She was a _colony_ , just as all the rest of her family. The people within her borders were both black _and_ white-- couldn't they feel any of it? Charleston was the cradle from which the American South had raised and nurtured that awful, awful practice-- her sister had to know. Couldn't they feel it?

Couldn't they?

“What on Earth are you doing out here? Do you _want_ to freeze?”

There was light spilling out from an open door, and a pair of buckled shoes, and stockings, and an exasperated huff as the state of Virginia settled down to sit next to her. Georgia glanced over, but only for a moment-- _trousers_ , really. She didn't understand how her sister could go around acting in such a way and still find the logic to justify treating half her population as inferior.

The huff was followed by an exaggerated shudder. “Philadelphia has no right to be so hot in the summertime, and so _cold_ in the winter.”

Georgia sighed, figuring she would need to answer at some point. She hated the cold just as much as the rest of the south, but...

“Mm, well. S'quiet out here. Don't mind the cold so much, then.”

“It _smells_ ,” Virginia persisted, “and it's much warmer inside!”

The younger girl's ire flared up before she could quash it down, and she turned fully to face her sister. “And why'd _you_ care?”

But she wasn't expecting the long pause that followed, and she certainly wasn't expecting the defeated tone which her sister's voice took on when Virginia finally did speak-- Virginia, ever-proud and unyielding Virginia, sounding _defeated_?

“...Do you feel them? Of course you do-- you must, surely.”

There was no question as to who she meant.

“The slaves?” Georgia asked, and got to see her sister flinch. “Call it what it _is_ , Elizabeth. The people that's been enslaved-- _our_ people that's been enslaved, also by _our_ people. I feel it, Elizabeth. _I feel them_ , yes.”

Virginia looked pained. Her lips pressed together in a thin line; her brow furrowed slightly in thought; she looked away from Georgia, studying her hands intently.

“I think--” she started, then stopped again. “I... Carol and Caroline, they feel it. I don't like talking about it with them, but I've tried.”

Georgia continued to look at her, but Virginia refused to look back up and meet her gaze.

Were her words supposed to-- to _what_? What was the _point_? If she was trying to assuage any hurt feelings, as if only _that_ was the problem between them here, she was still failing. What did her words mean beyond the fact that at least three of her family of fifteen _knew_ that they were wrong in their actions and continuing to do so anyway? All that did was cause more hurt. Further the divide.

But her sister's actions here were distressingly out of the ordinary, too-- Georgia thought about the flat fields of the south and the sprawling plantations-- the crops watered with blood from the slaver's whip-- the clamor of the auction block, bodies packed in too tightly and ropes around her wrists---- oh, but Virginia hated change. Her people, much like herself, had moved from tiny colonies just barely managing to survive to the peak of American aristocracy, and anything that could remove her from the position she held was seen as a threat. _Change_ was a threat.

Opposing slavery, removing it, would remove the linchpin of southern economy and wealth, and it would destabilize everything-- change was a threat. Georgia knew how her sisters thought.

“What I'm-- I--”

She had never even seen Virginia at such a loss for words. At least, she couldn't remember ever seeing such a thing.

And then again, this was probably one of the longest conversations they had ever had with one another.

“I can't-- excuse what my people are doing.” Virginia looked up, finally, but she still couldn't bring herself to meet Georgia's eyes. She looked out into the darkness of the night, vaguely in the direction of the privy, the light from indoors catching in the gold of her hair, her high cheekbones, narrow nose, pale skin. She sounded calmer, but she still tripped and stumbled over her words as though she was speaking a language entirely unfamiliar to her. “But I let their thoughts and actions mess with my head and skew my judgment, and-- I can't excuse that either, but-- I'm sorry, Belle. For the things I've said. And done. I'm sorry.”

Georgia said nothing. Her mind had gone about as numb as her fingers and her toes.

It wasn't that she doubted her sister's sincerity-- or that Virginia at least _believed_ that she was being sincere. But it was all too easy for her sisters to excuse themselves for their actions, to place the blame on others. Letting the thoughts of their people bleed through into their minds, as it so often did, accepting slavery as it was even if they happened to disagree with it, that made them _no different_ than any other white person in the south. But for Georgia-- oh, every time she felt that dull resignation of _this is my place_ and every pro-slavery argument she found herself nodding along to and--

She _was_ a person. She was a colony, just the same as all the rest of them. There was nothing that could make them _better_ , nothing so different between her and them to put them above her--

“Well, one've you's come to her senses,” she sighed, looking away, and she could hear Virginia's glare in her sharp intake of breath. “No. _No_. Don't you start now, Elizabeth, s'been more than _fifty years_. Don't think I've forgotten the first things you said-- _all_ said.”

There was another long pause, more strained than the first. Virginia's voice, when she spoke, was tight with controlled anger.

“I'm _trying_ to apologize--”

“And I _understand_ that!” Georgia snapped back. “But I can't-- I can't just _forget_. That one apology don't _erase_ everything.”

The wind blew. A few loose strands that had slipped out of Virginia's braid over the course of the day whipped around her face. Georgia's toes curled inside of her shoes, and she pressed her elbows into her sides, repressing a shiver. It was cold outside, yes, but that didn't mean she was going to go back in.

She heard the scrape of buckled shoes on stone, heard the fading footsteps, heard the back door to the house shut. The light dimmed and faded out; it was quiet outside.

Georgia tilted her head back towards the sky above and sighed again.

Their whole family had gathered in Philadelphia, all of the colonies and their father-- sans Rhode Island, and Vermont, and Maine. The latter two were their own, odd little subsets of other colonies, and preferred to keep to themselves in the same way that places like Plymouth and the Massachusetts Bay did. As for Rhode Island, he had been the only one of them to actually respond to his brother's call to arms, joining up with the militia around Boston, ready to fight for the freedom of their country against the British. Massachusetts himself had been unable to, with his capital under siege for so long, and he was still recovering.

Her hands clenched into fists; the fabric of her skirts bunched and wrinkled underneath her fingers.

 _Freedom_.

British, or-- or-- _American_? Was that what they would all become? But in some respects, in the ones that meant the most to her, it didn't particularly matter-- too many of both thought the same way. These colonies would never be truly free until _all_ who lived within their borders were also free, and there were few in power on the American side of things who would back that cause. Under British rule, the change might come faster-- and yet she could no more support the British killing her brothers' people and holding their cities under siege than she could rightfully support the men who held millions in bondage.

No, one way or another, this country was going to be built on hypocrisy, and she dreaded to see the outcome of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a rewrite of a chapter out of _Indivisible_ \-- that was originally going to be a fic like this, I think, with a rather ironic title, focusing on all the serious conflicts and arguments that litter the States' shared history, both personal and political. But, it's been a while since I posted that, and I forgot where I was going with it, so.....
> 
> Hopefully, this chapter serves to set the scene for the rest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the end notes for historical references and clarifications.

_April 2, 1843  
_ _Richmond, Virginia, United States of America_

Virginia moved quietly about the sitting room of her home in Richmond, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. She was a gentlewoman of the south, the representation of her people, a product of Virginian aristocracy, the so-called “Mother of Presidents” -- she had her skills at small talk and conversation so finely honed they could very well be performance art. But the stranger she had invited into her house was someone she had no idea how to deal with; she knew that it was her duty to talk to this boy, she just hadn't the faintest idea as to _how_.

Perhaps it was how much he looked like her father?

(Perhaps it was that this was no State, nor a province or a territory, represented before her like her siblings, but an _area_ , the American South. Like she and West were both Virginia, her heart by the ocean and the rivers, his in the mountains. Like her two sisters had been North and South long before there were two colonies for Carolina. The boy she had stumbled across and invited inside was the south of their land like Pa was... well, the north. Who embodied the west was being debated without end in Congress and decided with compromises which left no one happy with the results.)

“Do you take sugar in your tea?” she asked, simply for something to say-- for anything to say.

“Please,” said the boy with her father's eyes and her father's face and her people's accent and an almost hesitant manner, like he was just as unsure of her as she was of him. Virginia carried a tray over with the teapot, two cups and saucers, a bowl of sugar, a set of spoons. She sat in the chair next to the boy and looked at him for several more silent moments as they drank.

She had found him in Richmond entirely by mistake, thinking him America, entirely confused as to why America was there; after their confusion was sorted out, she had little choice but to explain herself.

He was older than her, physically, by a year or two; the same age as her father. He lacked her father's stubborn cowlick, his hair a little longer, his skin a little more pale-- no freckles, no tan. His face was a little more narrow, but it was still far too easy to mistake the two at first glance. He had the eyes of their family, and a faint kind of smile, and clothes that marked him as being well enough off. And now he was here, inside her home, and she didn't know what to do with him.

If there was a personification for the American South, what did that mean for the future? How deep would this divide go?

“Ma'am,” said the boy, unsure, setting down his teacup, interrupting her thoughts. Virginia had to fight back the most unladylike urge to roll her eyes.

“You've insisted I call you Alexander-- you call me Elizabeth, understand? Virginia, if you have to.”

“Yes, ma'am-- Elizabeth.” He shook his head a couple of times. “How...? How many of us are there? I thought it was just me.”

“You and I,” she responded with a gesture between them. “Personifications for the states in the Union, one for the capital, too, and the territories that Pa's found-- and then Pa, of course.”

“Pa,” the boy repeated slowly. “The Union.”

“America, yes.”

“Same thing, isn't it?” he replied with a shrug, almost dismissive. Something felt odd about that, but she set it aside for later. It was nothing. “What about others? Other countries? Continents?”

“Well, I've certainly never met a continent,” she had to laugh, though she was quick to sober as she continued, “and I've never personally met another Nation. Capital 'N', there, by the by, to distinguish the word.” She thought about how desperate her father had been to keep them safe during the Revolutionary War. “New England and a few others met and fought with the Kingdom of Prussia, back in the war against Great Britain. Georgia saw Canada, just the once, in 1814. But there are others like us for other countries-- presumably, all countries.”

“But why've you never met any of them, then?”

“It was for safety, at first.” She leaned back more comfortably in her chair, looking at the boy next to her.

He reminded Virginia a little bit of her siblings when they had been small, in a way; even more so, he reminded Virginia of herself, when she had also been small, and America had found her wandering not far from this very city. He asked the same questions they had all asked, at one point or another, wanting to know _how_ and _why_ and not knowing who they were asking-- and all of that was overshadowed with the relief that they had found someone like them, someone who _understood_.

But what Virginia didn't understand was why Alexander, this boy, had only appeared _now_ , when the divides between New England, the Middle Colonies, and the South had always been so apparent. Yes, things were far more distinct, nowadays, but-- it's own personification? And he wasn't a child, either, not physically-- but in terms of age, he _should_ be. He had no memory of the Revolution, or even of the War of 1812, which had ended less than thirty years ago.

...That was why he was here, really. Questions could be asked, and answers could be given, to both parties.

“England wasn't present in the colonies, often,” she continued, “less and less often in the lead-up to the Revolution, especially. America-- Alfred. Pa. He found all of us, raised us, and no European Nation had ever even tried to look, not to our knowledge. Once the war started, see, he didn't want any foreign powers to know about us out of fear that, if we lost, we as personifications would be punished along with him. We're family. He's our father. He refused to let that happen, and we understood that, and went along.”

The boy was frowning a little bit, head tilted to one side in consideration. “You said _at first_ , though.”

“This country operates under relative isolationism, these days, and individual states don't have any reason to be interacting with foreign powers. They never cared about us, so why should we care any about them?”

“That’s fair, suppose.” He nodded a couple of times. “And there’s one’ve you-- one’ve _us_ , I mean. For every state? Every territory?”

“Every state, every territory.” She started to try and come out with an invitation; _she_ didn’t know what do say to this boy, or how to react to him, but they were all family on this continent. He was the American South. He deserved to be a part of that along with them. Her family, _their_ family, deserved to know that Alexander existed. But she couldn’t quite find the words for it at first, and Alexander continued talking in the pause before she could start to speak.

“Pardon me if this is rude, ma’am-- Elizabeth. I mean no disrespect to your family. But do we-- they-- look the same?”

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Do we _look_ the same?” he repeated, sitting forwards intently. “You and I-- I’m the American South, like you said, and you’re _Virginia_ , and we represent our people. But they’ve got some unfortunate ways of thinking up north, and laws to go along with it, and-- well, you get what I’m trying to say. Do the people we personifications represent bear any ill effects on appearance, given that the definition of _people…_ changes, from place to place.”

Virginia thought she managed to keep her calm, once she parsed through his meaning. She thought she managed to keep her calm quite well, all things considered – the boy before her didn’t resemble her father so much, anymore, just another young member of the southern aristocracy, with all the ways of thinking that accompanied it.

 _No,_ she thought, _New England is just as white as you or I. New England ships upheld the triangle trade for far longer than any ships of the south. New England…_

She thought of Georgia, and Mississippi-- Alabama, Arkansas, Texas, Florida, Louisiana, and others still----

Alexander waited expectantly for an answer, unaware of how badly she had been thrown by the words he had spoken.

“...We’re all family,” she finally allowed, and smiled a close-lipped smile. “Got the same eyes.”

He seemed to take that as a _no_ for his answer, and continued on blithely. She learned that he was staying in Richmond for the time being, but liked to travel around some; he would let her know if and when he decided to leave her capital, and he would let her know again if and when he decided to come back. Virginia continued to smile tightly and walked him to the door, and he tipped his hat to her, and set off down the street; she watched him go, an odd feeling in her stomach.

He hadn’t expressed any interest in meeting her family. And while she was leery of change that could prove destabilizing – and the removal of slavery would destabilize the southern economy in ways she didn’t care to consider – she knew how that particular institution caused trouble for her family. Alexander, meeting the bulk of the southern states whom he represented, would go… poorly.

Besides, there were growing concerns about tensions between the northern and southern states; she knew that nothing would come of it, so long as they continued their compromises, but it worried a lot of her family, she knew. Best not to worry them any more with the news that the south had its own personification; it didn’t mean anything important. The United States seemed to turn out personifications in droves, and Alexander was just one more of many.

She stepped back inside and shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virginia meets the American South.
> 
> Historically, British America started with three sort of regions: New England, the Middle Colonies, and the South. As the country grew, as the United States grew, the divide shifted more towards the North, the South, and the West. This divide between north and south grew more and more pronounced as the Civil War approached, and the westward territories and states were the subject of frequent debate -- the south wanted slaveowning states established while the north wanted free states established, because both abolitionists and slaveowners wanted the majority in Congress.
> 
> Alexander is personified as the American South because of this more pronounced divide. There likely would have never been a personification for a given _region_ otherwise, what with the Union represented through America and the States representing their own regions. Virginia never finds out where Alexander came from or why he's older than her, and Alexander never mentions, but it's canon for the fic that he aged at a normal rate for a human before stopping at the age he was in the chapter (about sixteen or seventeen, physically).
> 
> As of 1843, the major historical events which led up to the Civil War are as follows: The Missouri Compromise, and Nat Turner's rebellion. 
> 
> The Missouri Compromise had Missouri admitted as a slave state, and Maine admitted as a free state to keep the balance of slave and free states in Congress; all future states admitted below Missouri's northern border would be slave states, and all future states admitted above Missouri's northern border would be free states.
> 
> Nat Turner was a Virginian slave who, with others from surrounding plantations, staged an uprising and killed around sixty white Virginians. Fifty-five of those slaves were convicted and hanged, and white mobs resulted in the lynchings of nearly two hundred others. Virginia state legislatures responded by revoking nearly all rights of free black Americans in the state and invoking further restrictions on slaves; education was prohibited -- if one was black and in Virginia, one was not allowed to learn to read or write -- and the right to assemble, as outlined in the First Amendment of the Constitution, was severely limited.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 22, 1865: Senator Charles Sumner is violently beaten by Senator Preston Brooks in the Senate chambers. Washington District bears witness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the end notes for historical things and clarifications.

_May 18, 1856  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

Washington District pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes and wondered why the hell she was even here.

Her family would be startled at her language; even she was taken aback when her patience and temper frayed to the point where profanity littered her thoughts. But she spent her days listening to men argue, and not only did it broaden her vocabulary ( _hell_ was a positively mild expletive, and certainly one of the least creative), it gave her the worst headaches.

Yet that was her life. That was politics. That was why she existed to begin with, and she'd be damned if she wasn't going to make the best of it and _pay attention._ Migraine headaches, illness, all of it, it just meant that something especially controversial was plaguing the government, and _that_ meant that something which would likely affect her family one way or another was going to happen in the future. So the answer to “why the hell was she here” was “because she needed to be here,” whether she liked it or not.

God above, but she wished they would just _stop arguing_.

Unfortunately, the only way the young capital was allowed to sit in on her own congressional meetings was to wake up well before the sun had risen in the sky, set about pinning up all of her curls so that they could fit under a hat, and raiding her brothers' closets for clothes that would fit her.

It was upsetting, really, but she was used to it. Dressed as she was, no one even noticed her sitting off to one side, likely assuming that she was an errand boy or something similar. She had no desire to correct them, and gave her name as _Abraham_ if anyone ever asked. The first syllable was close enough to _Abigail_ she was more likely to respond. She sat in the back of the room or off to one side, and watched debate after debate, some coming close to brawls and duels-- her senators argued the repeal of the Missouri Compromise and the passing of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, allowing the citizens of those Midwestern territories to vote on whether or not they wished to allow slavery or not regardless of location in north or south.

The Southern Democrats had proposed the bill and argued vehemently for it. The Southern Democrats outnumbered all others in the House and the Senate, and the bill was going to pass, regardless, and _everyone_ knew it so would they _please_ just--

“Will you not honor republican principles, or will you continue to support a law which has been unfairly imposed upon the South? Do you not agree that the citizens of every distinct community or state should have the right to govern themselves in domestic matters as they please, or will you continue to ignore the very foundations upon which this government was built...?”

\-- _stop_.

* * *

_May 19, 1856  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

The capital tracked Senator Sumner as he made his way from his desk to the center of the Senate floor, papers in hand and a defiant look in his eye; even his dress spoke defiance, light colored cloth in comparison to the somber black coats most other delegates wore. Something twisted sharply in her stomach; all of the debates and the compromises made her feel sick, like she was going to throw up at any moment, but some days they were worse than others. She could still remember the near-violence breaking out as the Kansas-Nebraska Act was debated, and her family had just recently heard about the ongoing crisis being called _Bleeding Kansas_ , both in the papers and in a shakily penned letter from Kansas himself, delivered by way of Ohio not long after it had occurred. Things were only growing more heated, and her headaches grew worse and worse by the day.

But Washington District was very good at dealing with headaches, so she sat very quietly in the back of the room, where no one bothered to pay attention to her, and listened.

It was ninety degrees, she had heard someone say earlier, and jammed her cap further down on her head to keep any loose curls from escaping. She could feel sweat trickling down the back of her neck, slick on her face.

...Dear _Lord_ , but that was a lot of papers that he held.

* * *

“What was he saying?” her father asked again, and Washington District rested her forehead against the table and grunted.

“...'Not in any common lust for power did this uncommon tragedy have its origin,'” she quoted – she could quote an awful lot of things from memory, only needing to hear them spoken once, and while there was no way she could have memorized his entire speech, it being as long as it was and she being as exhausted as she was, there were parts of it that stood out to her, vivid, ominous. “'It is the rape of a virgin territory, compelling it to the hateful embrace of slavery, and it may be clearly traced to a depraved desire for a new slave state, hideous offspring of such a crime, in the hope of adding to the power of slavery in the national government.' It was... the way he spoke about it...”

 _Even now, while I speak, portents hang on all the arches of the horizon, threatening to darken the broad land, which already yawns with the musterings of civil war_.

She knew that he had to be wrong, but Sumner's words made her feel uneasy all the same.

There was a pause, a long stretch of silence. Then she heard her father sit down next to her, gently taking her by the shoulders and sitting her back upright. She shot him a look from the corner of her eye and slumped against him instead. Even the dim evening's light seemed to aggravate her vision.

“It's one hundred and twelve pages, Alfred,” she said into his shoulder. “It's _one hundred and twelve pages_. He's going to speak for another two hours tomorrow.”

“You don't have to keep attending, you know. It's hot as hell in there, and I know you haven't been feeling well.”

She shook her head slightly. “You're busy working with the President. Someone needs to be there. And I'm the capital, 's practically my _job_.”

“I think right now, Abby, your job is to get some sleep.”

She didn't especially feel like moving, however, and continued to lean against him. America let her, one arm around her shoulders.

Their house had been emptier than normal, as of late. In part because no one liked spending summer in the capital, hot and crowded and smelly; in part because she knew New England was planning some kind of construction up north, a massive family home where they could all stay in if they wanted. The plan had backfired, since the south didn't want to go all the way north, and the mid-western States didn't want to travel so far east, and she had yet to even _meet_ the west coast territories given how far _they_ had to travel, so she doubted they would be thrilled at having to make a trans-continental journey, railroad or no. But once New England collectively put their minds to something, they didn't change them with much ease, and time would only tell how things would turn out.

She sat in the quiet and listened to her father's breathing for a long time.

* * *

_May 20, 1856  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

“He's lucky Senator Butler wasn't there,” she commented with a sigh when she returned home the second day. Georgia, present for the conversation this time, looked at her curiously, and America raised an eyebrow.

Washington District removed her cap from her head and grimaced at the feeling of her sweat-damp hair pressed against her scalp. “Senator Sumner turned from attacking supporters of slavery to some other senators in particular, Senator Butler being one of them. But he wasn't there today, which was good, or I think there might have been a fight.”

“Sumner's awful tall, though, ain't he?” Georgia tilted her head to one side. “Big fella, probably wouldn't've had much trouble there.”

“And they're _senators_ ,” piped up a young Alabama, also present. “Don't that mean they're respectable?”

“Doesn't,” America corrected absently while Washington District choked on a laugh at the unintentional play on words.

She'd seen enough of her politicians to know they were more than ready to duel if need be.

* * *

_May 22, 1855  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

Washington District sat to the side of the room, her hat covering her hair despite the heat and humidity, bouncing one leg up and down with something like nervousness. She felt sick to her stomach again, and it was no different than all the other times, but something kept telling her that this was _different_.

And she didn't know _why_.

She sucked in a sharp breath, letting it out long and slow, and looked around. Her senators were all here-- though they weren't _her_ senators, really. The capital had no representation in Congress. All these men were from different states. But she thought of them as hers all the same, because they were the reason she was here, like her family's people were the reason _they_ were here. It was just a little different, really, to be born of people or born of politics.

She looked at her senators, all here-- looked at Senator Sumner, at his desk near the center aisle, signing postal franks so that he could mail out his speech, all one hundred and twelve pages of it, his clothing and height making him stand out from the crowd of somber coats and sweating faces. Congress had only just been adjourned, but no one wanted to linger in the room for too long, and the Senate chamber was almost empty. The only reason she hadn't left as well was because the heat had only made her feel worse, and she wasn't quite sure if she could stand. She didn't want to draw attention here, and passing out wouldn't help her at all in that.

She looked at her senators, and saw one of them moving down the center aisle, cane in hand. She saw the handle flash gold in the light, and for a moment, she thought it was pretty, a fine work of craftsmanship.

“Mr. Sumner,” she heard a clear voice say, that distinguished southern accent of her older sisters, but low and hard and angry. Senator Brooks, what was he--? “I have read your speech twice over carefully. It is a libel on South Carolina, and Mr. Butler, who is a relative of mine.”

She saw that gold handle fly up into the air and swing back down with a swish _crack_ , wood on flesh, and cries of alarm. She saw Senator Sumner stagger to his feet, blood dripping down his face, fumbling blindly-- saw the cane rise and fall again, and saw Sumner collapse, trapped between his desk and a man bent on murder. She couldn't look away, not _once_ , couldn't even _move_ \-- she saw Senator Sumner, crying out in pain and blinded by his own blood, and Senator Brooks utterly _furious_ , and those who tried to intervene were stopped by others still, and-- Senator Keitt had a _pistol_ , and a cane of his own-- this was the _Senate_ , they couldn't just----

“Stop,” she whispered, hardly loud enough for even her to hear above the shouting. Senator Brooks had Senator Sumner by the lapels, furiously lashing out at him until the cane snapped his hands, but he kept _going_ \---- “Stop it.” And the Sergeant at Arms did nothing, nor anyone else, and there was blood streaked across the Senate floor-- _**“Stop!”**_

The world seemed to pause. Washington District felt her stomach lurch, bile rising in her throat; no one looked at her, but Senator Brooks dropped Senator Sumner back to the ground, and two others pulled him away, at which point he left without saying a word, utterly calm. Senator Sumner's breathing rasped in the sudden silence.

Nations could influence their people, and so could States, and so could _she_ , essentially the federal government personified, but she didn't-- this wasn't a monarchy, a dictatorship, this wasn't _tyranny_ , she didn't---- she didn't-- those were their choices, she never-----

(even for a good cause, to stop a man from being murdered?)

There was a piece of wood near her feet, the outside dark with varnish, the splintered edges red-brown. She picked it up and looked at the streaks across her fingers, pressed her skin against the jagged points until the pain grounded her enough that she could stand and run and not once look back. When the Capitol building was out of sight, she turned and vomited into the side of of the road until there was nothing but bile left in her stomach, and tears pricking at her eyes.

Home, she stumbled through the empty house into her bed-- she knew nothing of where Georgia or Alabama or any of the rest of the South who had come fleeing the Fugitive Slave Act were, perhaps out for the day, perhaps with their father, she didn't _know_ , but she knew the silence, and she knew she was alone. She curled herself tight around a pillow and shook with silent sobs; every time she closed her eyes, she saw nothing but flashes of gold and red on the floor.

 _Even now, while I speak, portents hang on all the arches of the horizon, threatening to darken the broad land, which already yawns with the musterings of civil war_...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abigail, being the personification of Washington DC, is equally influenced by the political happenings in the government as she is by the state of her people and her land. There was a number of things leading up to the Civil War, especially in politics, and looking back on the history, it's very easy to see the chain of events and building of tensions that culminated with the war.
> 
> The Brooks-Sumner Affair, as it is known, occurred after Republican Senator Charles Sumner gave a speech over the course of two days that denounced slavery and those affiliated, using rather lurid imagery throughout ("the rape of a virgin territory" to name one instance); he directly mentioned Senator Butler and other Democrats, denouncing them as well.
> 
> (side note: Democrats and Republicans held essentially opposite stances in this time to what those parties hold today)
> 
> Senator Preston Brooks was Butler's second cousin, and he was present during all of Sumner's speech; he took extreme offense and attacked Sumner the day after he finished speaking, violently beating him with his cane. There was an outcry from abolitionists and northern Republicans, while many southern Democrats and slaveowners sent Brooks new canes to replace the one that he broke. Brooks stepped down from the Senate, but was later reappointed to office, not experiencing any severe penalties for his actions. Sumner took a two-year leave from politics, experiencing symptoms consistent with head trauma injuries and PTSD in the aftermath.
> 
> Nations and States (and capitals) have some influence over their people, similar to how people are naturally drawn to their Nation (or State, or capital) when in their presence, feeling a tie to them that they can't explain. A personification can, with enough force behind their words, urge a person to action (and, in a sense, override their free will), which is part of why Abigail is so horrified at her actions even though Brooks could have easily killed Sumner had he not stopped. The American personifications are especially averse to doing such a thing, given that the country was founded on the principles of liberty and freedom (and yes, I'm aware of the irony).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bleeding Kansas: 1854-1861

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College is actively trying to crush me, but I'm still around. Still writing. We'll get to the end of this eventually.

_August, 1855_  
Topeka, Kansas, Territory of the United States of America  


Kansas hadn’t met too many of the other States, the people that America called family-- he wasn’t sure if _he_ could call them family, though. They didn’t have much in common, beyond that they all shared land on a massive, sprawling continent, and a man who wanted to call himself their father. America was nice, he really way, and the and so were the mid-western States, too, but _he_ was a territory. Just a territory. No one near enough that he could live with, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to leave his people behind to live with strangers on the east coast.

He hadn’t met too many of the other States. But he wanted to, now. He wanted to.

He wanted to drag them out here and force them to look at the damage they had done-- because it wasn’t _his_ people doing this, and it wasn’t _his_ people policing the polls, and it wasn’t _his_ people _killing his own people_ \---- it wasn’t him. It wasn’t. But he was the one paying for it, he and his people.

He woke up choking on his own blood, copper in his mouth and a red stained pillowcase, a nosebleed starting in his sleep and only growing worse until he started to cough and splutter, eyes flying wide open in panic. Rolling over, he spat out mouthfuls onto the floor, feeling his hair stuck to the side of his face; he couldn’t _breathe_ \---

Damn them. _All_ of them.

It wasn’t their fault, the personifications of the other States. He admitted as much to himself, as he always did, once he had managed to clean himself up and huddle at his rickety table with a hot drink in his hands, breathing slow and even just to remind himself that he could, that he remembered how. It wasn’t their fault in the same way that it wasn’t _his_ fault, wasn’t his people killing _his people_ and policing the polls.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t _them_.

It was their people, flooding over the borders – and they didn’t show any signs of stopping any time soon. But he still wanted to show them, these people he was supposed to call family, and maybe they would do more than compromise to try and patch up their problems. Kansas would take Washington District, and show her the politics on a smaller scale-- would take those folks up in New England, and his sisters from down south, and show them what _their people_ were doing---

Kansas sighed, and coughed, and tasted copper in his mouth.

He wrote another letter back home, hoping perhaps that one of the other mid-western states would be able to deliver it for him. His hands shook as he wrote, and the ink smudged, and his nose started bleeding again halfway through, so it was a black- and red-stained paper that he folded up to mail when it was properly morning.

There was a part of him that was legitimately frightened. People killing on another over this-- and he wasn’t the only territory that was being fought over. If it were to spread? If the north attacked the south, or the south attacked the north?

He coughed up blood as he wandered along to the post office, and handed his letter over to the clerk, and wandered along back home.

Two governments on his land. _Strangers_ on his land. Americans, killing other Americans.

Nebraska came to visit, early on. He knocked on the door and then walked on in without waiting for an answer, and just stood in the doorway and stared at Kansas, sitting miserably over his table with a kerchief pressed to his nose.

“Damn,” he said.

“Shut it,” rasped Kansas, and Nebraska shut the door behind him and went to sit down next to him.

“Sure as hell don’t envy you this.”

“Yeah, I don’t envy me this, neither.”

He didn’t stay for long, just a couple of days. But he knew that the States didn’t have the time – or, likely, the inclination – to come out and check on him, and this Kansas-Nebraska Act should have been affecting them both as its name would imply. But it wasn’t, really. Just Kansas.

“You take care of yourself, you understand?”

“Do my best, Henry.”

* * *

_To Alfred, and you others:_

_I write to you now to speak of what your Horace Greeley has decided to call “Bleeding Kansas,” an unfortunately true moniker in my own case, and to ask you – apologies, in advance, for my language, but I find myself past caring: what in the hell do you think you’re doing, on the coast…?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kansas-Nebraska Act overturned the precedent set by the Missouri Compromise, which stated that all territory brought into the Union south of a certain point would be slave territory, and all territory to the north would be free territory; the Kansas-Nebraska Act stated that Kansas and Nebraska would vote on the matter through what was called "popular sovereignty."
> 
> Nebraska had few problems with this. Kansas was overrun with pro-slavery settlers and northern abolitionists, often from New England, called free-soilers, sparking partisan violence and the establishment of multiple constitutions and governments, simultaneously. Violence continued along the borders even after the state was accepted into the Union in '61, throughout the rest of the war. For the personification of Kansas, whose land was a microcosm for everything happening in the rest of the country, it was a very bad time.
> 
> "Bleeding Kansas" was a term popularized by Horace Greeley in the New York Tribune.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1860: South Carolina becomes the first state to secede from the Union.

_December 20, 1860  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

They had been trying, despite everything, to build and maintain a family with one another even though they knew that the actions of their people could easily tear such a fragile thing apart-- even though they knew that they themselves disagreed more often than not. Not a one of the States held any love for European Nations, and so they only had one another. All of history would be awfully lonely without someone to spend it with-- they had been _trying_.

They had tried so hard.

South Carolina didn't feel it when her people voted to break away from the Union; her land was her own, regardless of who claimed ownership to it. But she was one of the first to read about the news in the paper when it was delivered, and so she left it lying on the table for someone else to find and climbed the stairs back to the room she shared with her twin.

Even if she had nothing-- if she was stripped of her resources and her people and her land and all that gave her life, assuming she survived such a thing to become the haggard, shambling creature such catastrophe would cause her to become-- even if she had nothing at all, she would still have her pride, clinging tight to it.

Pride had always been a weakness of hers, in truth.

So she didn't make a fuss about it. Didn't let on how she felt, knowing that her people were taking her away from family. From her _twin_ , the one who had been her other half long before there had ever been two Carolinas. She didn't say goodbye to her family when she left, and she didn't apologize, and she didn't respond to their words-- their pleading, their shouts, their furious accusations. She hardly deigned to look at them as she left.

(It wasn't because she hated them or because she wanted to leave-- she never wanted to leave them, for all that they could infuriate her. That was family. But her pride forced her to leave with dignity, and she had always known that her people might one day decide that the government of South Carolina took precedent over the government of _these_ United States. After the election of Lincoln, such a thing seemed almost inevitable. And so with dignity she left, and she did not look back.)

“You'll join me soon?” she had asked her twin as she packed. North Carolina looked at her solemnly from where she sat at their dresser, brushing out her hair.

“Where one of us goes, can't be long until the other one follows.” She smiled, but it was a little too crooked to be true. “I can't feel the south of me anymore.”

That distant land to the north was conspicuously out of reach, too.

“I know.”

* * *

Christmas that year was a solemn affair.

* * *

_February 4, 1861  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

Mississippi's legislature voted to secede on the ninth of January, and Florida's the day after, and Alabama's the day after that. Georgia's voted to secede the following week, and Louisiana a week after his older sister, and Texas, two weeks after.

Not a one of them even contemplated leaving until nearly a month had passed; America was sick in bed, suffering from a pain none of them could do anything to soothe as the union he represented started to fracture, and the house was more subdued than it had any right to be, and when Washington District burst into the room with paper clutched tight in one fist, the action was jarringly loud.

“They've established a new nation,” she said, pale-faced, trembling ever so slightly. “A grouping of states-- the Confederate States.”

Georgia bowed her head. The others in the room looked warily to one another: those of New England, scoffing at the very idea of it, as though they themselves hadn't succeeded in doing the same thing almost a hundred years previous; New York, looking far more wary; Pennsylvania, ever the pacifist, worried at what the future might hold; Maryland and Delaware sharing concerned glances over Virginia's head, and Virginia looking strangely frightened, oblivious to them both.

The five who had seceded, sans Georgia, cast frightened looks to one another, and that night, in their various rooms, they were packing and unpacking bags-- wondering if they would really _need_ to go, wondering if this new Confederacy could really win a war against the Union. Texas, according to the papers, hadn't been admitted yet, but if five states had chosen to form a nation, his own would likely follow.

Not a one of them wanted to leave, because this was rapidly spiraling into a _war_ to be fought over the right to own slaves, no longer something to be settled through compromises and a tentative peace, and all of them knew that they could never pass as white. They would be joining a confederation founded to oppose people who looked just like them-- _forced_ to join.

* * *

Yet Georgia came by, long after everyone should have been asleep; most were not, too anxious of what the days ahead of them held. She looked tired.

“Found out something new,” she said to each of them. “This isn't a passing thing. Make sure your bags are packed-- I'll be going down with you all to Richmond.”

* * *

_April 17, 1861  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

“Alexander.”

America froze in the doorway, stunned into a momentary silence by his confusion, just _staring_ at her as she herself stood, tall, proud, alone save for her western half at her side; Massachusetts was red in the face, and her ears were still ringing with the volume of his shouts. Others clustered behind the two; others still had retreated, trying to block out the noise.

“There's a personification of the south. Has been for years. Goes by Alexander.” She met her father's gaze, struggling to keep her emotions at bay, likely failing. “This isn't something I can _ignore_ , you understand? This isn't going to go away. Most likely, it's permanent, and it'd be a hell of a lot easier for everyone if you could just accept that.”

“There's--” America shook his head. “ _What?_ ”

“Alexander,” she repeated, tilting her head up. “His name is Alexander, Pa-- he's the south, the American South. And likely the Confederate States of America, such as they are.”

East Virginia took West Virginia by the hand; they left the house in the capital with their backs straight and their heads held high-- and they did look back, just for a moment, hearing the shouts fade away and the door slam shut behind them.

“I don't like this,” said the western half of Virginia as they walked.

“If any one of us _likes_ this, I'll make sure to be having words with them,” his older sister answered, the eastern half, the rivers and the coast to his rocky mountain hills. She finally let her expression crumple, away from the others-- Maryland, and Delaware, and Pennsylvania, all left behind, and North Carolina, too, though no one expected one Carolina to go and the other to stay behind for long. Washington District, the girl she had given land to create, had helped raise.

Alexander, kept a secret, but it was too late to do anything about that, now.

“When we get to Richmond, you help look after all the others, you hear? Can't imagine Alexander will be doing as well as he was-- 'stead of being the south, he's a Nation, now, and that's a hell of a lot harder.”

West Virginia glanced up at her. “Am I keeping an eye on-- on _Alexander_ , then?” he asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar name.

“Sure. And you're keeping an eye on _our family_.”

“You don't think that he'd--”

“Just look after them, Gideon.”

“...Okay.”

* * *

_May 6, 1861  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia_

Arkansas and Tennessee both seceded on the same day. Northern states had started to leave after the battle at Fort Sumter, too, knowing that if this was to be a war, it would be better for them on home soil, away from front lines-- and, more selfishly, it hurt to see a home that had been once filled to bursting so empty. Every one of them that left, north or south, only made the feeling worse.

America was growing used to the pain of it-- the physical pain, rather. He wondered if England had felt this way when the colonies had chosen to revolt. Emotionally, he didn't think it was possible to grow used to the pain of it all.

He didn't look up when two of his children came in. Arkansas, not even thirty years a State, a little boy of nine years old at most; Tennessee, not too many years older, holding his hand.

“We-- we wanted to say goodbye, Pa.”

“...Take care of one another,” was all he could say.

* * *

_May 21, 1861  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

North Carolina left in the middle of the night, intent on rejoining her sister and her twin in Richmond. She was only stopped by the sight of the capital, asleep at the dining room table with a candle nearly burned out next to her and old letters from her southern siblings underneath her folded arms upon which she rested her head.

She looked on in silence for a long, long time. Pulled a blanket over the child's shoulders, saying nothing. Left.

There were very few remaining in the house, by then.

* * *

_Summer, 1861  
_ _Richmond, Virginia, Confederate States of America_

A line of young men and women stood in front of Jefferson Davis, chins tilted up with an innate pride and defiance, fire in their eyes – though who their rage was directed towards, they weren't entirely sure.

“We'll fight for your cause,” they said, each in their own separate way, but the point was that they _said it_ , the words burning like acid on their tongues. “We'll fight with you until the end.”

The Land they might be, the Land given voice, but more often than not the only words they could say were the words of the people. If the people wanted to leave, who were they to deny them? The Land changed with the people, and the Land moved with the people, and the people were leaving, so the Land left with them.

“Welcome, my fellow confederates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Secession began after the election of Abraham Lincoln to the presidency in 1860. The Civil War technically didn't start until shots were fired at Fort Sumter later in '61.
> 
> In the cases of the personifications, many of them, especially those who had gone north to escape the risks caused by the Fugitive Slave Act, were reluctant to leave because there was still a chance that the war would be over soon. President Lincoln never acknowledged secession as legitimate – they were “states in rebellion” and still a part of the Union, officially.
> 
> Virginia was “strangely frightened” because she knew what her family didn't: that there was a personification of the South, and now the Confederacy, in Alexander and that these secession efforts were very much not a passing thing. She tells Georgia, who gathers the others, realizing the same thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foreign responses.

_May 13, 1861  
_ _London, England, Great Britain_

England sipped quietly at a cup of tea as he read over the finalized statement which had been drafted and redrafted and compiled together, nodding, finding it to be satisfactory.

He had known that this couldn't last, this _nation_ that the boy had tried to cobble out of colonies who couldn't even agree on the simplest of matters. Their victory had only succeeded through intervention by _goddamn_ France, and Spain, and Prussia-- and that had hurt. That had hurt a good deal. But the boy playing at adulthood, founding a so-called nation on such preposterous ideals and naivety, he couldn't even do _that_ right!

No country could call itself a sanctuary for freedom and liberty while holding more than a quarter of its population in slavery. This conflict had been a long time in coming, and the Americans were scrambling about in panic as though they'd had no idea. Idiots, the lot of them.

England hadn't needed to win the war – not the War of American Independence, and not the War of 1812. The boy was going to be his own downfall.

“Is it to your approval, Lord Kirkland?”

“Quite,” he answered, and nodded again.

He and his people were declaring neutrality in this conflict, though that was likely to change if the southern states intending to break free had a greater success than anticipated-- they had won the handful of battles which had been fought so far, after all. And those _Americans_ could hardly complain about it; he was well aware that declaring neutrality allowed the Confederate States the status of a belligerent nation, giving them freedom of contract and trade abroad, but if the boy hadn't wanted other nations to intervene, he should have talked his own government out of establishing a blockade.

Blockades of ports, after all, were only used in conflict with a foreign power, not with internal affairs.

The paper was taken away, and he was left to his solitude, staring out at the gray skies and smoke of his city. He took another sip of his tea, draining the cup, and set it aside.

...He _did_ feel some kind of regret, in a way. The boy had been one of his prides and joys – ungrateful brat. But civil wars were uncomfortable, unpleasant things, and the boy was young, unused to the feeling of being ripped apart from the inside out. He had no desire to see the boy crash and burn in such a way, but he had few other options.

The war would take its course. History always did. And England, with centuries behind him and long centuries ahead, would watch, and wait

* * *

 _May 27, 1861  
_ _Toronto, Ontario, British Canada_

Canada grew more and more concerned as the papers turned out news day by day. Granted, there were fewer details than there would be in the country in which this civil war was actually taking place, but he wasn't an idiot, just young. He could read between the lines. He could hardly even  _imagine_ what his brother was being put through, and he hated to think about it.

England had granted the Confederate States of America belligerent status. There was very little that Canada could do in an official matter. But he worried all the same-- they had been brothers, he and America, long before those names had been given to them.

And...

...well, he remembered the eyes of his brother in the face of a child. A black child. If he had been right about his brother having personified states, his _children_... God, but this war had the potential to become even more hellish than it had any right to be.

* * *

 _May 29, 1861  
_ _Saint Petersburg, Russian Empire_

Russia was a busy man. There were more important things to concern himself with that the political crumbling of a nation overseas with which his government had little interaction with, particularly when said politics ran antithetical to his government’s own.

That being said, his people and the people of America got along… surprisingly well. And he had met America, a couple of times. The boy had been bright, and cheerful.

Russia had lived a long time, and he knew that history would take its course no matter what, and so he concerned himself with the things he could control – _his_ rulers, _his_ people, _his_ politics. But from time to time, he worried; civil wars were unpleasant things, and he doubted the boy would be quite so cheerful next time they met.

* * *

_February, 1862  
_ _Paris, France_

“You are the representative of France, yes?” asked Slidell. The man’s English was spoken with an accent that made France’s ears bleed, but when he tried to speak proper French, the accent was even worse. He would _not_ tolerate the slander of his own language in his own house.

“ _Oui_ ,” France answered, and sipped at his wine.

Nations were supposed to be both impartial and entirely devoted to the current monarch (or prime minister, or _president_ , as they had taken to calling it overseas in the past century), and so France’s position on the matter of the Confederate States of America was the same as that of his people: undecided. But he found slavery rather distasteful, regardless of its use, and he knew despite the lack of cotton exported from the formerly American south, his country would be able to manage quite fine on its own.

“You see,” said Slidell, one of the diplomats the Confederacy had sent overseas, and then continued to talk. There was talk of French intervention on behalf of the Confederate States – which the French government, as it had been for the past two years, was unwilling to do without English cooperation – as well as assistance with the blockades and financial assistance.

France tuned him out, mostly, and he was quite relieved when the diplomats were turned away at last. He had helped America get to his feet, and it wasn’t his problem if the boy couldn’t stay standing.

He was interested, however, in that Slidell had known. _Representative of France_. Not _French representative_. So far as France was aware, the man hadn’t been of any particular importance in the government before secession began, which meant that others in the Confederate government had to have made him aware of Nations. And if there was a personification for the Confederate States of America, _well…_ that could prove interesting indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Europe mostly watched to wait and see what happened with the United States during the war. England and France were both officially neutral, though there was an ever-growing possibility that they would have sided with the Confederate States winning battles so often. However, both nations granted the Confederacy belligerent status, which made it unofficially a nation. Canada was still under British control. Russia and the United States were on surprisingly good terms with one another up through the beginning of the twentieth century, believe it or not, though it officially didn't side with the Union.
> 
> John Slidell was a Confederate diplomat sent overseas to try and convince France to side with the Confederacy. It didn't work. He was also involved in the Trent Affair.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October 1861: the western provinces in the Confederate State of Virginia rule the previous vote on secession invalid and side with the Union, with the result of West Virginia being admitted as a state in 1863.
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT, 6/28/18: Virginia is represented by two personifications due to cultural and geographical differences. Historically, the people in the counties of western Virginia were outraged by secession, hence their own secession efforts -- the personification of western Virginia hates secession as much as them, but he feels connected to his sister given that they represent the same land. 
> 
> Apparently the portrayal of W. Virginia causes offense to some in this chapter, given his upset at being separated from his sister, though I wrote it with the intention of siblings being separated without their control despite personal differences. So if you take offense to W. Virginia and Virginia personified being upset by their separation, skip this chapter and the next. Summary of what happens in this one will be in the end notes.

_October 25, 1861  
_ _Richmond, Virginia, Confederate States of America_

The Confederacy had seemed to lose all sense of reason when the news about western Virginia had come in.

He wasn’t a _cruel_ man, the States tried to tell themselves, lying through their teeth. He wasn’t always cruel, no, but the Confederate States of America was a new, unstable, untested entity, and its personification buckled under the strain. His moods swung violently with his temper, and though he only spent some of his time in their shared Richmond home, the tension indoors was nearly palpable.

The east and the west of Virginia had been out of the house at the time-- perhaps a mercy, perhaps not. Neither of them wanted to think about the war, or the controversy over secession amongst their own people. The Confederacy _had_ been in the house, however; had first turned on Texas, the closest to him, and then to Mississippi before Georgia had intervened. He had stormed out eventually, before both halves of Virginia had come back, to either a meeting down at the White House or to get drunk – by then, it was evening – leaving behind the States, tense, wary.

“You can’t keep _doing_ that,” Alabama pleaded, helping Georgia back to her feet along with Mississippi while Texas went to pump some water for her.

Georgia brought a shaking hand to her forehead, near the hairline, and pulled it back to look at the red dripping down her fingers. “Being established as a penal colony never made our older siblings like me too much,” she said, quiet and strained. “On top of the obvious reasons. Tend to forget it was set to be a buffer, too, ‘gainst the Spanish in Florida. Protectorate. Don’t you worry about me, loves, you just let me do my job and protect you, understand?”

She was resting upstairs when the Virginias returned; Tennessee caught them on their way in, explaining in rushed tones what had happened while they were gone, glossing over the decisions of the legislature and focusing on the Confederacy’s response, but Virginia had stopped him before he could finish.

“The hell do you _mean_ ,” she demanded, pallor as gray as the uniforms her soldiers marched in as her western half started to shake on his feet, “that the legislature voted to secede?”

“No-- no, I felt sick, but-- but, _no_ \-- Liz, where’s-- the coastline? It’s just the mountains now, everything-- everything else-- where’s the coast? Where’s the water?”

Tennessee closed his mouth without a word and helped them both inside.

None of them had felt it when their people had voted to break away from the Union; their land was only their own, regardless of the Nation which their people claimed to be a part of. All of them had been feeling sick with military preparation and economic upheaval. Instead, it was their father who had felt them breaking away, and the Confederacy who had felt _this_ – and both Virginias, had remained blissfully unaware.

* * *

But the thing was, the thing _was_ , that Tennessee had been raised with the South as his family, and save for the oldest three, most of the southern states personified were not white. He spent time with his northern family, too; Massachusetts had been with Pa, when they'd found him. He hadn't known what slavery was for _years_ , no one thinking they needed to explain it to him, so ingrained was it in their society.

And he still slipped up and said things he didn't mean, or things that made Georgia sigh and shake her head, but he always tried to do better.

He didn't want to be here. He didn't want his people to secede into a country where so many of his siblings would be at risk of harm. He didn't know what the South would do without the linchpin of their economy pulled out of place, but he didn't want to go to war over it, either. Didn't want the north coming into their land and fighting over it. Didn’t want the Confederacy here, didn’t want to be living under his roof. He just wanted his family safe, that was all.

* * *

“Gideon, get up.”

* * *

They left without telling anyone; West Virginia had insisted on leaving a note for his eastern half – though they were no longer two halves of a whole, not anymore, _he couldn’t feel the coast_ – so she might be able to warn the rest before the Confederacy lost his temper, but they could afford nothing else. They went on foot, because Tennessee didn't dare to take any of the Confederacy's horses-- he would notice that they were gone, quicker, if they did, and horses needed to rest. States could push on. Inhuman endurance, with all-too-human emotions.

They left without telling anyone, in the middle of the night, nothing but a small rucksack of food and the clothes on their backs, holding tight to one another's hands.

“I can't feel the coast anymore,” West Virginia kept saying.

Tennessee squeezed his hand; it felt cold and clammy. “I know, Gid. I’m so sorry-- I know. I know.”

* * *

 _October 29, 1861  
_ _Union Territory_

They swam the Potomac, current sweeping them miles downstream from where they had started out, and even with the strength of States, the two lay there huddled in the brushes and the mud, gasping for air and shivering in the brisk autumn night. Tennessee fumbled for his brother's hand and squeezed it, gasping, desperate.

It was three nights after they had first fled, and being on what was technically foreign ground felt no different than all the time that Tennessee had spent in Richmond. Virginia was foreign ground, too, in a way. Foreign for both of them – had his brother noticed how strange it felt, to no longer be on home soil? He didn’t dare to ask.

“Gideon,” he finally managed to say. “Gideon.”

“Tim,” West Virginia breathed.

“You remember where the house is? How to get there wherever y'are in the capital?”

“'s _home_ , innit?”

He gave a breathy, watery laugh. “Git up, then. _Go_. Before... before patrols come 'round. Can't get caught, Gideon, you gotta get home.”

“You aren't-- what about _you_?” His brother struggled to push himself up on shaking arms, looking at him incredulously in the moonlight. “Timothy, you're--”

“Elizabeth was right.” West Virginia flinched at the name of his sister, and Tennessee held him tighter. “This isn't temporary. And... And my people are still fighting. I can'-- I _can't_. You know I can't. I can't. 'Sides, gotta make sure-- sure Alexander lays off the others.”

West Virginia still stared at him, incredulous, through the darkness. They still clung together, white-knuckled fingers, brittle bone.

“Timothy,” his brother whispered.

“You've gotta go, Gideon. You gotta get home.”

“Timothy, please.”

“I can't.”

“Please.”

“I _can't_.”

And they both knew it all too well, but neither of them moved for a long time after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The western counties of Virginia declared Virginia's secession to be invalid because of voting fraud or something similar; they organized constitutions and legislatures on three separate occasions, despite Virginia's position as a Confederate state, and swore allegiance to the Union. West Virginia wasn't accepted into the Union as a state until 1863, but declared itself separate from secessionists in Virginia in '61.
> 
> The colony of Georgia was established as a penal colony -- somewhere for England to send their criminals -- as well as a buffer between the Carolinas and Spanish Florida. It didn't win Georgia any kindness from the other States.
> 
> Everyone in Alexander's house can see things going very bad very quickly, and Tennessee intended to get West Virginia out as quickly as he could. The reason I wrote there already being two Virginias despite there only being one state was because of the growing cultural and geographical differences between the east and the west dating back to before the Civil War, similar to the differences between northern and southern Italy and the two personifications of Italy Veneziano and Italy Romano, or the differences between the northern and southern regions of the United States and Alexander's existence as a personification before the Civil War began.
> 
> The Potomac gets narrower and narrower the closer it gets to Washington District. No idea how difficult it is to swim across it, but please just assume that because they're personifications, they have a strength and endurance well beyond that of a regular person and could have made it.
> 
> \- - -  
> Confederacy grows violent at the news of W. Virginia's secession; W. Virginia is severely upset by the fact that he can no longer feel the land he shares with his sister, as is Virginia. Tennessee sneaks W. Virginia out of the house and travels with him across the Potomac so he can go to the family home in the capital.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> West Virginia escapes to the Union capital.

_October 30, 1861  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

The first letter came by way of a Virginian family who lived close enough to the border that such a thing could be smuggled north with less trouble than it might otherwise be-- trouble still, to be sure, but less of it. Virginia would see the various notes and letters safely brought there; the family in question had friends in Maryland, and the letters went from there to the house in the capital. She explained all of this in a postscript at the end, so the north could reply, if any of them wanted to.

It was a brisk autumn day, unseasonably cold for October in the capital. Washington District opened the door, frowned at the wind that caught at her skirts, and ducked back inside to get a heavier coat and a hat before walking to the post office. She took the letters addressed to her house, glancing through, recognizing the various handwriting of her family members, and put them in the bag she had carried with her before leaving to brave the winds and walk through her city to the White House, where she had been given a little room as an office of her own. She had little in the way of actual work to do, but it made both her and America feel more at ease, being in the same building with now-enemy territory just across the river. When she saw him, she mentioned only briefly that she had stopped to get the mail before the conversation turned to more important topics.

Only when both of them had finally come home for the night, the pair sitting in a house that had once held close to thirty, now empty except for them both, alone in the sitting room, did the letters come up again. America scrubbed his hands over his face; it was evening, and he would be leaving again before six the next morning despite his exhaustion.

“I have letters from New England-- Steven, too, a couple others,” she said, hoping it might lift his spirits.

“He glanced to her. “Oh,” he said, slow in reacting. “Yeah, yeah, you'd said... Sure. Let's read them.”

So she got up to get the pile, and they moved to the couch to better read together, with letters on the small table in front of them. New York had written about the strange new boat being cobbled together in his harbor, some thing entirely made of iron, no sails or wheels or smoke stacks visible on the surface; he described it as a shingle floating in the water, with a big old cheese box rising from the middle of it where guns were to be placed. It got America to smile, just a little, and Washington District eagerly took the next one, hoping it contained something amusing, or good news, or both.

Massachusetts' letter was split almost evenly between describing some trip he'd gone on with Maine, sounding as though it was straight out of one of those adventure-type novels, and a list of a series of perceived slights against the two of them from the most recent dinner with Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay; the two old Puritan colonies were still kicking around, somehow. Maine, who had attached a letter to the back of her brother's, poked fun at Massachusetts and reassured their father that the two men had treated them just fine, and all four of them sent their best.

Connecticut was spending a few months at Rhode Island's, so she said in a letter written jointly between the two of them; New Hampshire had taken an apprenticeship with a blacksmith, looking to learn yet another trade, and Vermont wrote about a new piece of land he had purchased in his father's name-- this letter was dated to well before the war had broken out, being lost in the post, and the cheerful atmosphere grew subdued. There had been talk, before everything seemed to fall apart before them, of buying an out-of-the-way property where they could build a house large enough to hold all the States and more, somewhere they could live together as a family without needing to worry about having enough room or dealing with questions as to why there were so many children who never seemed to age.

The capital put that one aside and picked up the next, only to freeze, staring at the looping script. Her father, looking at the table with a melancholy expression, lost in thought, didn't pick up on anything amiss until the silence had stretched out far longer than it should.

“Abby?”

“It's-- it's from Elizabeth.”

His head snapped up, and he stared at her. She looked back at him, rather pale, and held out the paper in a shaking hand.

Virginia's handwriting was as perfect as it ever was, elegant and curling, addressed to their house and the pair of them, _Alfred & Abigail Jones_. Carefully, he broke the seal on the back-- the Union seal, ironically enough, something that Washington District had given her for Christmas a few years back-- and pulled the letter out, unfolding it. It was dated to nearly three months ago, and there was a second envelope in the pile with the same address in the same handwriting, having traveled much more quickly than the first.

“Hello, Father,” he read out hoarsely. “H-- Hello, my brothers and sisters. I've tried to get Carol and Caroline to come and sit with me while I write, bu Caroline is adamantly refusing, and Carol simply follows her lead. Perhaps I will have the younger ones join me later, but regardless of who else writes, I speak for us all when I say we are sorry.”

Both of them were crying by the end of it, though Washington District couldn't figure out if she was sad or angry or something else, or perhaps all of the above.

Virginia had left. One of the women who had raised her had _left_ \-- through no choice of her own, but she had still left, and she had hidden the existence of a personification for the American South for _decades_ , until it was too late to do anything about the divide between them---

_I cannot say with certainty that Virginia forsakes the cause for which my people are fighting, but Elizabeth longs to return home to you._

“I can--” Her voice was clogged, her face streaked with tears, and she badly needed a handkerchief. She coughed and tried again. “I can-- I can write north, and tell them?”

“Yeah.” Carefully, America put the paper down; there were holes in the paper where his fingers had gripped at it too tight, some of the words now illegible. “I think... I think I'll set this aside, for a day or two. I'll answer it when I've...”

Washington District understood. “...Okay, Papa.”

* * *

She alone read the second letter. It was not nearly so neat as the first, rushed, cramped, almost panicked in its flow. She was crying by the end of that one, too.

_I do not know if any of you will ever receive the letter I write to you now. A part of me hopes that you do, for I believe you as ~~family~~ ~~former family~~ part of the incidents which have occurred have the right to the entire story, beyond what others might be able to explain. A part of me hopes you never do, for I feel both blame and guilt for that which has transpired; judge me as you will for this._

The Confederacy hadn't been pleased to hear about the secession efforts in the state of Virginia, she had written, and now Tennessee and the western half of Virginia were gone from the house-- they were traveling north, she had written.

 _We have been here but a handful of months, and I fear for Alexander's sense of reason_.

Washington District couldn't feel any other personifications on her land save for America, but with the letter dated so recently, she knew that there would be two more, soon.

_I regret that this war ever started._

Didn't they all?

* * *

_October 31, 1861  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

It was well past midnight, and once again, Washington District was the only one awake in their home in the capital. America was still _awake_ , more likely than not, but he wasn't _home_ \-- he hadn't been home very much at all, in the past months, working with President Lincoln. He had gone back to the White House after they had read the letter from Virginia to distract himself. And none of her family was awake in the home in the capital because none of them was _there_ , all gone north to safer land, so she was the only one awake and she was the only one at home.

She sat by a dim fireplace and few flickering candles, reading and rereading the letters Virginia had sent until the ink smudged and the paper seemed to grow soft under her fingers.

 _Why did you have to raise us as family?_ she couldn't help but think, her mind turning to her father, wherever he was. It felt like a betrayal, in a way-- but it was _true_ , and she knew it.

America had raised them as a family, taught them to care for one another, because no one else was going to, and they shouldn't have needed to do it alone-- and not a one of them could have predicted that something like this would have ever happen (except they could have, they should have, _she_ should have-- _portents hang on all the arches of the horizon, threatening to darken the broad land, which already yawns with the musterings of civil war_ ), and--

And she thought that she imagined the knock at the door; it had started to rain, a light drizzle, and it could have been the wind, or the shifting of logs in the fireplace. And she was alone, and her father wasn't home, so there couldn't be anyone calling so late at night looking for _her_ , not unless something had happened to America...? But it couldn't have, because she would have known, and a knock for something like that would be much more urgent. But then she heard it again, a little louder than the first, and she set her letters aside and got to her feet and hurried down the hallway to the front door-- it wasn't something with America, and it certainly wasn't wrong with her city, she would _know_ , she would _feel it_ , but why else would someone be here so late--?

And she opened the door, and there was West Virginia, drenched and shivering.

She stared.

“C-can-- can-- I c-c-come i-in?”

* * *

He talked at her as she held him, stumbling fragments of sentences forced out through  the chattering of his teeth. Pieces of information about the Confederacy, and what he was doing in that house of his in Richmond-- that Tennessee was the one to run him across the state and swim with him over the Potomac, except he left West Virginia to make it home by himself, because he needed to go _back_ , and the Confederacy would---- and over and over and over again, _I can't feel the coast, Abigail. Abigail. I can't feel the coast anymore_.

She was crying when he finally fell asleep, and still crying when their father came home; his head was resting in her lap, and he shivered despite the blankets wrapped around him, and the fire that Washington District had started in the hearth to warm him up.

She ran her fingers through his hair, now dried but gritty, smoothing out the tangles, listening to the clatter of their father's footsteps. She could track where he was in the house by the sound of them, moving down the hallway after hanging up his coat, crossing from room to room in their home, freezing at the door to the sitting room with his gaze fixed on them in something like shock.

“...What?” he said faintly, all he really could say, and the capital tried to meet his gaze with something level. It didn't work. She wasn't as good as her politicians were yet at keeping a blank face, not around people she trusted like her family, not about things like _this_. She didn't think it was possible to keep a blank face about things like this. There were tear tracks on her cheeks, not quite dried. She had cried too much today; her head hurt for a reason unrelated to politics, for once.

Her father had left before she could tell him about the letter, and she hadn't expected West Virginia to be here quite so soon.

“He said that Timothy brought him over,” she whispered so as not to wake her sleeping brother, still running her fingers through his hair. “That he had to leave before Alexander-- Alexander...”

“Hell.” Their father stumbled forward, shakily going to his knees-- he'd been trying to hide it, but the secession had hurt him in more ways that one, physical wounds in addition to the emotional pain. She'd seen the bloody bandages he tried to hide, and the stiff way that he moved. He brought his hands up to touch his son's face, reverent, trembling; adjusted the blankets to cover him better. “How... there's soldiers everywhere. He'd have needed to get across the Potomac.”

“Must have swam it,” she answered, turning her palm over. It was dirty from the mud dried in his hair. “Alfred... _Papa_... Papa, I'm frightened for them. Living with Alexander.”

* * *

The next morning, she woke up on the couch with a sharp pain in her neck, head at an uncomfortable angle, to see sunlight streaming through the windows. West Virginia was still asleep with his head in her lap; their father was already gone, she could tell by the silence of the house. Washington District had to wonder if he'd even slept at all last night. Likely not; he'd been sleeping less and less often, as of late, and while she understood – she didn't sleep very much, either – she knew if he didn't sleep, he would struggle all the more as the fighting continued.

Normally, she would join him as he worked with the President, though she no longer bothered to tuck her hair up underneath a cap and don her brothers' clothing, but West Virginia still huddled fitfully under the blankets, and she couldn't leave him alone. So instead she slipped carefully out from underneath him, sliding a cushion underneath his head, crept away into the kitchen in yesterday's rumpled clothes, her hair all a mess, and pulled a footstool over so she could reach everything to cook. Not that the capital was particularly good at cooking – Georgia had taught her some things, and she and America were leagues better – but she could at least make breakfast. With that done, and only slightly burnt, she made coffee (and added a splash of whiskey from where her father kept it hidden; Lord knew her brother could use it) and brought it all out on a tray, setting it down carefully on the table before shaking her brother's shoulder.

“Gideon. Hey, Gideon.”

“Mm?” His eyes cracked open, their family's shared shape and shade of blue, and for a moment there was only confusion, like he didn't know where he was. Then his gaze focused in on her, and his whole expression crumpled. Washington District could only squeeze his shoulder in sympathy.

“I... I made food. I thought it might help a little if you ate.”

“...Okay.”

Slowly he sat up, and Washington District sat down next to him, and they ate breakfast there on the couch in the sitting room at nearly eleven in the morning, almost entirely in silence. It wasn't until he had nearly cleared his plate that West Virginia spoke. “We didn't know.”

His voice was flat. Washington District slowly set down her fork. “Know what?”

“When it _happened_ ,” he answered, just staring at his plate. “Liz and I were out of the house, just to get away from Alexander for a while, thinkin' 'bout gettin' stuff for the others. She-- she figures that if we-- if they--?” For a moment, his mouth worked soundlessly. “If-- if the south loses the war, they've still gotta wait it out, and if the south wins the war, Alexander might settle down some. But we gotta do what we can to make it better for our siblings, make things happier there, keep Alexander distracted. And we got back, Liz and I, and Timothy told us Alexander's in a real fit since the western counties of Virginia'd declared the state's secession void and sworn loyalty to the Union, but neither of us _noticed_ \-- and then she couldn't feel the mountains, and I couldn't feel the ocean.”

_I can't feel the coast, Abigail. Abigail. I can't feel the coast anymore._

_We have been here but a handful of months and I fear for Alexander's sense of reason._

“Is he really so... so terrible?” she asked, not wanting to know the answer, but knowing she _needed_ to.

“It's not easy for him, don't think,” West Virginia finally answered, still not looking up. “Doesn't excuse none of it, though. He-- he treats the others something awful, though Belle does a good job of keeping him away from the lil' ones. Drinks a lot, to deal with it.”

 _Belle_ \--

“War's a fucking disaster." He shook his head, sounding bitter. "Never wanted it, Abby. Could feel it when our-- when Liz's people-- voted. Strange, innit, could feel that but not my own damn secession? And I knew they were fighting against it, our--  _my_ \-- people. And I wanted 'em to succeed, so we could end this whole mess and come home. And they're still-- they're still  _my_ people, and you know-- you know how it is. When your politicians are making you so sick you can't even stand, but you'd do anything for 'em, cause they're yours."

The capital nodded, not saying anything, not sure if there was anything she could say in this situation.

"And they've fought for this, and bled for this-- died for it. Gonna keep fighting and dying for it, if they got to.  _Course_ I wanted 'em to succeed, they're my people." He turned and looked at her, as exhausted as they all were nowadays. "But we were Virginia, Liz and I, and 'cause of this, we aren't. And damned if I don't want that _back_."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tennessee returns home and faces the consequences of disobeying the Confederacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Confederacy continues to be violent and unstable in this chapter, though nothing actually happens beyond threats.

_November 1, 1861  
_ _Richmond, Virginia, Confederate States of America_

It was night when he finally made it back to the house in Richmond. He was tired and cold and sore, and the whole of yesterday night's traveling hadn't been easy. They as personifications were a kind of supernatural creature themselves, and the ghosts of their people came and went from their lives. Halloween, hurrying across old battlefields... he didn't even want to think about it.

Tennessee had hoped that he would be able to sneak inside, tell his siblings that he had returned, and hope everything would be something like normal in the morning-- hoping against hope that, if he pretended like everything was normal, the Confederacy would be less likely to turn on him. But there were flickering lights inside, which meant that the Confederacy was still awake, which meant that Tennessee had no choice but to knock on the door and wait for the sound of approaching footsteps.

The Confederacy said nothing when he let Tennessee inside, only motioned for him to follow, and so follow he did. He was tempted not to, to just turn and go and change into clean clothes for the first time in nearly a week and _sleep_ , but-- well, he remembered the boy's reaction to the news about West Virginia. He didn't want to work the Confederacy into a temper, not while all his siblings still slept. Didn't want that anger turned on him.

Though, really, given what he had done, he didn't know what else he was expecting. Tennessee had yet to understand how this _boy_ \-- fifty years old, just barely, by his own admissions!-- could keep such a tight hold over all of them. It made him uneasy.

“You left,” said the Confederacy after a long pause, standing in the sitting room with his back to Tennessee, who remained in the doorway because-- because? He didn't know, but something in the back of his mind whispered, _just in case_. “You left with _Gideon_ , in fact.”

“Gideon's people voted to return to the Union,” Tennessee answered. “He's my brother. I wanted to make sure he got back safely.”

“Right.” The Confederacy chuckled softly, turned so that Tennessee could see the mimicry of his father's face in profile. “Right, of course. Well, there's a couple things wrong with that, Timothy. First-- Union states are not your family. And second of all, you _left_. In the middle of the night, you left without telling a soul, and-- slept in a barn, so it seems?” He raised an eyebrow, looking Tennessee up and down pointedly. “And our dear Gideon hasn't joined the Union yet, neither-- still arguing about it, on and on.”

“There's already Union troops moving in,” he shot back. The Confederacy turned fully to face him, looking down-- before Tennessee could really react, his mind slow and sluggish from all the past week, the boy was standing directly in front of him, far too close for comfort.

He took a half-step back. The Confederacy matched it.

“You're causing a fair amount of chaos under my roof, Timothy-- we might be rebels, certainly, but you can't just be going off like that. I'll be making sure you're somewhere that you _can't_ be doing such, now.”

“You're going to _make_ me?” he repeated. “I'm sorry, isn't this government of _ours_ \--” The emphasis on the word was deeply sarcastic. “--based on decentralization, didn't you say? Isn't this constitution of _ours_ prioritizing the rights of _states_ over the rights of the _nation_? Isn't--”

“Now, you listen real careful,” said the Confederacy in a tone that was dangerously soft, and now he was standing so they were almost chest to chest. Tennessee tilted his chin up defiantly and met that blazing gaze (his eyes, his father's eyes) with an identical one of his own; he knew the door was behind him if he needed to run, but he was a State. He didn't run from fights. “You're going to leave, _Timothy_. Get out from under my shoes and settle down in a place you can't cause more trouble. There's yet to be a conscription established, of course, but that doesn't change matters. You'll be enlisting.”

“You want me to _fight_ in this--?”

“I don't particularly _want_ you to do anything except for what it is you've been told to do!” For a moment, he thought that the Confederacy might actually hit him, the boy's face gone nearly purple in rage. But then it calmed; the anger smoothed out into something more controlled, restrained. “You're _going_ to leave. Or, if you'd rather, I can make life a lot more miserable for you--”

Tennessee made a noise of disbelief, staring at him incredulously; he didn't _care_ what happened to _him_ , so long as he could make sure that his family was--

“--and those so-called siblings of yours.”

\--safe.

The Confederacy smiled.

And Tennessee nodded his agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "States' rights" was the primary cause of the Civil War, sure, but it was states' rights _to own slaves_. Anyone who shortens it to just "states' rights" is attempting to cover that up.
> 
> By that, the Confederacy as a personification should be deferring to the decisions and actions of the States, but his focus is on power and survival. He's an incredibly young Nation, too, and so his sanity is already starting to fracture with the tolls that the war is taking. That being said, he's intelligent and knows how to manipulate the States around him -- he's already established his power over them, and seven of the twelve who came south have no legal rights, so all he needs to do is threaten the others to get one of them to fall in line.
> 
> His bigotry and racism is _not_ a part of his failing sanity. That is who he is.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> North and South Carolina leave for their capitals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: slight violence from the Confederacy, described non-graphically.
> 
> Opinions expressed in this chapter reflect that of the characters and their time period, not the author.

_October, 1861  
_ _Richmond, Virginia, Confederate States of America_

Perhaps once, North Carolina might have thought that things in their Richmond house ran smoothly – even now, if asked, she would say the same thing, because some things just weren’t talked about in polite company. But now, she knew it was no longer true.

She and her southern half had no need to worry about harm coming to them here in Richmond; neither did the Virginias. They were old, established states, after all, far older than the Confederacy was despite their physical appearances, and so he treated them with respect and left them well enough alone, with a chivalry that bordered on chauvinism.

(North Carolina was used to that sort of thing from southern gentlemen.)

She was the last of their confederation of states to go south; if the choice had been up to her, she would have left with South Carolina, not because she _wanted_ this war – terrible things, wars, too messy and complicated for her liking – but because they had both been the same colony, once. The same Land. Her sister and her twin took priority over all else.

So she had only been in the Richmond house with all the others for a handful of months, relieved to be with South Carolina again, but it didn’t take very long for her to see the cracks in the facade of normalcy.

Nationhood, she gathered, was difficult. She wouldn’t _know_ , having never been one, but she remembered quite clearly that strange shift in feeling over time as her people – her family’s people – had won their revolution against the British, as they established themselves as something more than a colony dependent on the motherland. Economic upheaval, political tensions, uncertainty… She had to assume, then, that if Statehood had been so unpleasant for her after the war had already been won, what the Confederacy was undergoing had to be far far worse. He had lived for such a short time, and now he was plunged into civil war; she could see him breaking under the strain.

Virginia had said he was _kind_. North Carolina supposed he was, if one never looked too closely.

Georgia carried bruises that no one ever gave an explanation for, not her nor the Confederacy nor any of their family. Louisiana had grown more and more subdued as time passed on, skittish where he had always taken after their--- after the Union, before, bright-eyed and always talking or moving or singing. Texas had begun to chafe almost immediately, never having wanted to make the trip to Richmond in the first place. He _had_ been a Nation, once upon a time, and he’d held all of the freedoms and the feelings which came with it. To be roped back into statehood – and here, in the Confederate States, into servitude…

Messy things, wars. Her siblings had never been slaves, despite the color of their skin, and she didn’t want to see them in that position. At the same time, her people depended on slavery in quite a number of ways, and the folks up north ought to be able to see, as she did, that they couldn’t make this peculiar institution go away overnight. But they couldn’t, and now, they were fighting, and she was in a house not her own with half her family in foreign territory.

Couldn’t they just leave well enough alone?

The Confederacy kept trying to talk to her, one morning, cornering her in rooms or in the hallway, and all North Carolina wanted to do was to walk down the road to church and pray that this war would be over soon. He’d grabbed her by the arm to keep her from leaving until he was done speaking, and she felt something _snap_ in her wrist. It healed to only a sore stiffness within the day, and yet---

* * *

_November, 1861  
_ _Richmond, Virginia, Confederate States of America_

Tennessee and Virginia – _West_ Virginia now, so it seemed – disappeared. It wasn’t long after the news about the secession of counties in the land he and his sister shared came in; the Confederacy had flown into a rage, had turned on Georgia, and it had taken three of the States to break them apart before he’d gone off to get drunk.

North Carolina climbed the stairs to the room she shared with her twin that night and sat down on the bed. South Carolina glanced to her for a moment, brushing out her hair in long, even strokes.

“We need to leave,” she said.

“Yes,” South Carolina agreed.

“ _And_ we need to take Belle and all the others with us, if they’ll come,” she said.

“Yes,” South Carolina agreed, with far less hesitation than North Carolina had expected from her. “Can’t say I approve of the north forcing themselves in on us like this-- and God knows we haven’t treated some of our family right in the past. But we are still family, we and Belle and all the rest. And that’s family Alexander’s going after.”

* * *

The Confederacy had gone still when North Carolina said that she and her sister were leaving for their own land, and that they were taking their family with them too, and then he had gotten angry. Had lashed out.

But she was her father’s daughter, despite everything, and a State besides, and theirs was now a government who fought for state’s rights; she twisted out and snapped his fingers, head tilted up in defiance, and walked away.

The Confederacy locked the doors to the house and hid the keys, refusing to let anyone leave without his permission. North Carolina didn’t particularly care about his retaliation, knowing that there was nothing he could do to stop her, not permanently, but she didn’t dare push any further with the younger States at risk. South Carolina had stepped up, then, gritting her teeth, all of her sweetness and coyness and charm molded into a mask and a smile.

She was the cradle of southern ideology, the center of American slavery; the Confederacy had no wish to deny _her_ anything.

When the keys had been found, and she had told her twin where they were, North Carolina slipped out of the way while the Confederacy was distracted one evening, and explained the plan to Georgia.

Georgia stared at her for a long few moments. “Little late for help, Caroline.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Little _late_ for help,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Listen, now, he’s not gonna go after _you_ , if you leave? Me? The little ones? He’d have the dogs after us in a heartbeat, and posters up, and it ain’t too difficult to find a so-called runaway with our eyes.”

“The government--” North Carolina tried.

“ _I have no rights u_ nder this government, Caroline! I’m black, and a woman besides. It doesn’t matter what our people are fighting for-- state’s rights, slavery, state’s rights to _uphold_ slavery-- doesn’t matter. You go up to President Davis and tell him what’s going on in this place, and he’ll laugh you straight out of the White House.”

North Carolina stared at her. Georgia only sighed.

“Listen,” she said again, and looked at her with a solemn expression. “I was put here to protect you all. You and Carol get out of here, get back to your land, leave the rest of us behind. I’ll see to it that they all stay safe. I can promise you that much-- they’ll stay safe so long as I’m here with them.”

* * *

The pair stole the keys and fled, North Carolina to Raleigh, and South Carolina well past that to Columbia. North Carolina wrote letters, and sometimes she even got a response, bu she did not see her twin again until after the war had ended.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 25, 1861 -- the first Christmas of the war.

_December 25, 1861  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

The capital looked at the snow falling outside the window of the White House and resisted the urge to swing her legs back and forth. She might be tall for her relative age, but her feet didn’t quite touch the floor in the chair she was sitting in.

Christmas last year had been a solemn affair, forced cheer failing to cover up the tension that all of them felt. Not all of the South had seceded, then; there was still hopes this would be a quick war. But now… now there was little end in sight, and the South had a personification of its own, and the treasury could only support a war another year before debt would send taxes and tariffs spiraling high. And Christmas this year…

Washington District remained in her city; she had no plans to leave it, not even if the unthinkable happened and the war was _lost_. With uncertainty growing over the war’s outcome, America, too, stayed in the capital, in a too-empty house. The newly-named West Virginia sat listlessly in her front parlor, no longer crying for what he had lost, the sadness replaced by an anger he had no idea where to direct.

There were few letters, fewer decorations. She had gone to church this morning, alone, and prayed to God she wasn’t sure she believed in. And now she was here, Christmas Day, listening to her President and the Cabinet talk about what to do with the men who had been captured on board the _Trent_.

“--cannot simply release them after holding them for so long, it would reflect---”

“--propose we hold them without question--?”

“--already have--”

“--what about _habeus corpus_ \---?”

Across the room, America rubbed his hands over his face tiredly. Washington District looked from him, to her arguing government, and back to the window and the snow outside.

She hoped, if nothing else, that her family down south was warm and safe, wherever they were.

* * *

_December 25, 1861  
_ _Fort Frederick, Maryland, United States of America_

Tennessee shoved his hands underneath his arms to keep them from going numb (it was too late; they were already numb) and huddled a little further behind his shelter. Stones and sticks and leaves, not nearly enough to stop a bullet, but maybe enough to hide him from the enemy’s sight.

They were part of a raiding group that had been sent out to a Union-held fort – and damn if it didn’t hurt, even now, to think in terms of _us_ and _them_ about the people he’d been raised with – to take the fort and destroy the defenses around the canal it was guarding, opening up into the Potomac. That part hadn’t gone too well, but he’d heard that some other folks managed to tear up the railroads nearby, which…

Was good? Wasn’t good? He just wanted his family to be safe and his _people_ to be safe – didn’t want to have to feel them _die_ , not like this…

Damned war. Damned _Confederacy_.

Christmas Day, and here he was, invading Maryland.

The Potomac was _right there_. He’d already swam across it once, it couldn’t be hard to follow it down towards the capital…

…and get shot as a deserter somewhere along the way, most likely. And then scare the hell out of some folks when he woke up from it, since their Kind couldn’t die.

He’d never died before. Didn’t know what it felt like. Didn’t want to know.

“Hey, Collins,” he said, and a soldier a few yards away looked over. “How’d you celebrate, back home?”

“Big family dinner,” Collins said with a grin, though his teeth were chattering. “Ma cooks a damn fine turkey. You do the same with your folks?”

“Yeah. Or… used to. Got a lot of ‘em up north.” He shook his head as if to clear it. He wanted to distract himself from the fact that the battle was likely to start any moment, as soon as one side spotted someone on the other, as soon as another charge was led-- he didn’t want to make himself sad. “Don’t tell ‘em I ever said this, but most of my older sisters can’t cook worth _shit_. Make army rations taste even worse than they do.” Collins let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “But it was… it was good, y’know? Huge family, I’ve got. Lots of siblings and cousins, all piling into one house. Never thought I’d miss their noise, y’know?”

The sharp _craaaack_ of a rifle echoed through the air, followed by a flurry of others following suit. Collins hefted his old Springfield and peered over the edge of his own shelter.

“You call this _quiet_ , Jones?” he shouted as the battle began anew. Tennessee lifted his rifle to his shoulder, caught a flash of blue against the world of brown and white and gray, and fired.

“No, but it’s a different _kind_ of noise---”

Collins had fallen backwards, red in the snow, rifle still in his hands. Tennessee swallowed heavily and looked away from where the boy’s face had been, and the cold he felt had nothing to do with the winter’s chill.

* * *

_December 25, 1861  
_ _Baltimore, Maryland, United States of America_

“Timothy’s fighting.”

Delaware nearly dropped the kettle of hot water she had in her hands; it was close, but she held onto it. Maryland was staring dully out the window, expression drawn, weary.

“What?”

“Timothy,” the State repeated. “He’s on my land, I can feel it plain as day. Means he’s fighting.”

“You’re sure…?

Some of the haze cleared from her eyes, just enough for her to turn and glare at the other State. “Martial law’s dragging me to hell and back, Delaney, but I’m not _that_ far out of it.”

“Sorry.” Delaware winced. “Sorry, I… it’s hard, today, is all.”

“…I know.”

Maryland sighed and closed her eyes. Delaware walked to the table and poured hot water into two cups, watching the tea leaves swirl in each.

* * *

_My dearest sister:_

_Things are not so bad in Columbia, though the blockades at the ports continue, and I know from experience that the prices of goods will continue to grow. It is cold, but not nearly as dreadful as the cold further north. I regret that this war has separated us from our families, but I do not regret that our people have chosen to fight for their beliefs. I also do not regret the opportunity to spend the winter on home soil – it is practically warm in comparison to years past._

_How is it in Raleigh? Have you spoken with any of the others? I have written back to Richmond and received no response, though perhaps you have had better luck._

_Truth be told, the war has not reached us here, not in the ways that it has in Virginia and the other states along this new border. It is present, but there is no fear of Union assault. Mine is the home of Confederate pride, and it is reflected in the bearing of my people. I can almost pretend as if there is no war at all – but then, if there was no war, you and I would do as we have always done and spend this holiday together…_

* * *

… _holiday together._

_I miss our family, you know, but I do not miss their bitter cold. I still cannot understand how New England survives it._

_I have to ask: I have written to Richmond, both letters to our family there and other letters to be sent further on. Please do not judge me for this, Caroline, but though there is a war now, between us, that does not change our shared past – I would speak with them, still, if they would listen. However, I have received no response, from Richmond or from the far side of the Potomac, and I confess that I am worried. Have you had any luck at all, with letters of your own?_

_But Christmas is not a time for being so gloomy. I look forward to your response, no matter when it arrives. Take care of yourself, and may we soon be able to meet again!_

_Your sister,  
_ _Carol_


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington District and the Lincoln children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been.... uh. Ten months? Sorry about that. Life and college have been shitty. Still up and kicking though.
> 
> Historical notes at the end of the chapter.

_February, 1862  
_ _Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America  
_ _The White House_

It was a frankly baffling sight, if America was being honest.

His daughter had always been a quiet child, even before the burning of the capital had ripped away her youth and her innocence. He couldn't remember seeing her laugh or smile in public, not in the past few decades, and even at home, when she could let down her guard, it was mostly to show tiredness, or to let out a few quiet complaints at whatever headaches the government had been giving her. It wasn't that she repressed everything, at least, he didn't think that she did, and he liked to think that he knew his kids pretty well ~~why hadn't he seen this war coming, he should have~~ ~~ _known_~~. Washington District was just an old soul in the body of a young child. That was what he told himself. Better than him having let her believe it was okay to crush everything down, become something unemotional and steadfast because she thought she had to be that.

In counterpoint to this, the numerous children in the White House were rambunctious, rebellious, hyperactive little rascals, and though they could be tiring-- well. America _loved_ kids, and these were his people, children of the President; he loved them all the more for it. Willie and Tad were the worst of the lot. He'd seen them barge in on cabinet meetings and leave entire rooms in disarray in the space of minutes. Little Tad, only nine years old, would intercept people who were looking to find his father and insist they had to pay a fee before they could go any further.

He expected Washington District to barely tolerate the pair, her sense of humor primarily being dry wit and wordplay, the chaos of their actions going against her carefully-kept order. What he got was Washington District letting Tad sit on her shoulders so he could set up what looked like a prank while Willie kept guard; the boy jumped seeing him turned the corner, and then smiled, comically innocent.

“Hi, there, Mr. Jones!” he said brightly. “Lovely day, sir, yessir! Say, there's something I think Pops wanted to show you--”

America had raised more than thirty children in the past two centuries. He wasn't fooled.

“I just left a meeting with President Lincoln,” he responded with a raised eyebrow; Willie's expression didn't even break. When they were old enough, and Mrs. Lincoln wouldn't skin him for it, he was _definitely_ teaching this one how to play poker, and Tad, too. “So I'm sure whatever it is you think he wanted to show me, he did.”

“Really! Well, I'm awful glad to hear it, Mr. Jones!”

“William, _why_ are you, your brother, and Abigail putting a bucket of river water up on the door to Secretary Stanton's office?”

“Because,” Abigail sighed as Tad fumbled with the bucket, spilling a little bit more of the water onto her face. She didn't seem particularly pleased with the situation around her-- but she was also _helping_. His _daughter_. “Secretary Stanton called me an ignorant child who knew nothing of warfare, among other things, and then he refused to sit and have a proper conversation regarding any perceived transgressions which I, apparently, made against him. So I wrote him a letter, but when I got to his office, I found him elsewhere and these two inside.”

“I... see.”

On one hand, he was the representation of the United States of America, and _technically_ an adult. He was a parent, which made him an adult, right? On the other hand, he always had his kid's backs, especially when they got backlash for being “too young” or for being a girl in what was supposed to be a man's space. Sure, part of him still thought some things were best left to the men… except, when given the opportunity, his daughters were just as good as a lot of things as his sons. He remembered ~~teaching Virginia how to shoot,~~ ~~ _she'd been his first kid_~~ how Connecticut had laughed and laughed the first time New York had tried to ride a horse, how Maine could throw a punch better than any of her older brothers. Massachusetts had been proud.

And on yet another hand, wherever that mysterious third hand had come from to begin with, he always did think a bit of mischief was good to lighten up the day. And Secretary Stanton _had_ been rude to the capital; she had a temper, but she was good at looking at things objectively. He believed her side of the story.

...There had been so little to laugh about, as of late.

“Okay.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I'm going to go back that way, all right? I'm not here right now, wasn't ever here to begin with, _definitely_ didn't see what was going on.”

Willie _beamed_ , and Tad was so excited he almost dropped the bucket on him and Washington District both. For a moment, she looked almost panicked. “Aw, _thanks_ , Mr. Jones--!”

“And, if I ever catch you at this again, I'm going to have to tell your father.” He looked down sternly at Willie. “ _And_ your mother.”

The smile dropped. Willie nodded emphatically. “Yessir, Mr. Jones, definitely won't get caught, no sir!”

“Tanks, Merns,” Tad said, finally getting the bucket in place. _Thanks, Mr. Jones._ Washington District put him back on the ground, relieved, as he turned to chatter at her.

Born with a cleft lip and palate, the kid spoke with a lisp and a number of other difficulties, and America hadn't spent enough time around the President's family yet to be able to parse out most of Tad's longer sentences. Often, people who weren't close to the family couldn't understand him at all. But the capital seemed to know what he meant without a problem, because she patted him on the head and gave him about the closest thing she ever got to a smile.

“Yes, I'll still be here later in the day. Go on, now, it's almost lunchtime-- you and your brother should go eat with your family.”

Tad hugged her around the middle, ran up to America to do the same, and then grabbed his brother by the hand. The two bolted, giggling and whispering to one another; America turned back to his daughter and waited.

She looked back with a blank expression that any politician would long to be able to pull off. “They're good children.”

“I love 'em too, Abby-girl, I just didn't take you for the practical joke kind of type.”

“Mm.” She nodded, accepting the observation. Then: “Say, do you remember that time someone hung all your washing out in the middle of February so that it froze solid?”

“That was _you_?”

“Of course not.” But she _actually_ smiled that time, so quick he nearly missed it, and walked past him down the hall. “I'm going to go and get lunch-- you're welcome to join me.”

He stood in the hallway, blinking a few times in surprise, before turning and running after. “Abby-- Abigail, really, you can't just drop something like that without explanation and then _leave_ \--!”

* * *

“Who _is_ your Papa?”

Washington District, in her tiny little workspace at the White House, didn't look up from the papers she was reading over. She hadn't heard the door open, and she hadn't heard Willie come in, but he and his brother were so good at sneaking around and wreaking havoc that she wasn't surprised by his sudden voice, always keeping half an ear out for the noise of the chaos they caused.

Besides, the two knew better than to try and mess around with her.

“Why do you ask, Willie?” she said by way of a response. President Lincoln and a few others knew about America and his family, herself included, but they didn't quite trust children to keep a secret. Most would assume it was a childish kind of game, true, but there was always a risk of someone taking it seriously, and they didn't want that.

“'Cause you're a kid, like me and Tad and Bud and Holly, even though you're weird, but the only reason kids stay in the White House so much is because they've got a Papa who works here, like my Papa, 'cause my Papa's the President!”

...He wasn't _wrong_.

“And you haven't gotten any bigger since we got here, even though it's been a year, and Tad's grown a whole inch, and I've grown an inch and a half, Mama says--”

Still not wrong.

“--and I would _think_ that your Papa is Mr. Jones, 'cause I've heard him talk about his kids, but he can't be your Papa 'cause he's too young to be your Papa, and you're too old.”

Well, then.

Sighing, Washington District got out of her chair and went to sit on the floor next to Willie, who looked at her expectantly for an answer.

“I'm going to tell you a secret, Willie, but you can't tell _anybody_ else. Not anybody! Not even Tad or Bud or Holly.”

“But Tad's my brother!” the boy protested.

“Yes, and if it's a secret, you can't tell him.” He made a face, but he nodded. “Alfred _is_ my father. He raised me since I was a little baby. 'Cause you see, Alfred and I aren't like most other people-- Alfred represents this country, and I represent the capital.”

Willie looked at her in confusion. Washington District struggled to explain.

“It's like--”

America wouldn't be happy with this description, but it was the only one she had.

“Have you ever seen those drawings, Willie, of the Lady Columbia? Or, has your father ever talked about something like that?”

He lit up, nodding a couple of times. “Yeah, Papa said she's a-- a-- personification? She’s America.”

“Yes, like that. Now, Columbia isn't actually real, she's someone that people made up to represent something. Alfred and I, on the other hand, are very much real.” She smiled, just a little bit, seeing him start to understand. “He's a personification of the country as a whole, and I'm a personification of this capital city. That's-- that's why I've got these.” She touched her fingers to her cheek, briefly, feeling where smooth skin turned to roughened scar tissue. “From when the British burned the buildings, in 1814.”

“ _That's_ why you're weird, 'cause you're _old_ ,” he exclaimed, and she made a face of mock-offense. “So are there even more, then? If there's your Papa, and you, are there states? Is there an Illinois? I'm from Illinois, you know!”

Her good mood vanished like a candle in a storm. She thought about Georgia, reluctantly leaving; Virginia, weary yet proud, _his name is Alexander_ ; Maryland, now under martial law. All the family who had gathered into her home, now scattered.

“...Yes, and some territories, too. And... the Confederacy.”

He peered up at her. “D'you miss them? The ones who left?”

“Yes,” she said, quiet, “I miss them very much.”

He hugged her, then, which took her by surprise-- but she let him, even going so far as to put one of her arms around his shoulders in return. They would have been the same age, if her body reflected that kind of thing, just a pair of children. “Don't you worry, Abigail. My Papa's gonna make sure that the whole Union stays together!”

Oh, if only it were so easy.

“Yes, I'm sure he will.”

He smiled up at her, pulling back... and then he began to cough, startlingly loud in the silence; the fit went on for far longer than it should have.

“...Sorry.”

“That's okay.” She frowned a little bit, though, reaching out to touch his forehead. It wasn't very noticeable, but he did seem kind of warm, a flush in his cheeks that could be from whatever running about he had been doing before he came to find her, or from the onset of fever. “You should go take a rest, Willie. I can answer more questions you have later, though, if you want.”

* * *

The next day, she didn't see Willie or Tad anywhere at all; the hallways of the White House seemed strangely quiet, a thing that she would normally appreciate. Today, it just unnerved her. Her father mentioned, when she saw him, that both boys were sick in bed.

In a week, there had been no change save for that things were getting worse, instead of better, and while Tad seemed like he still had a chance to pull through, Willie was getting weaker and weaker by the hour. The President and Mrs. Lincoln spent most of their hours at their children's sides.

Washington District came by, just the once, and told stories to them both until she fell asleep. Then she left, because while she had only lived for sixty-odd years compared to her father's few centuries, she had seen enough people die to recognize what it looked like, and she hated the sight of it.

* * *

On the twentieth of February, just a little under a year after his father was sworn into office, William Lincoln died of typhoid fever at the age of eleven. The funeral was an awful thing to bear, but still they went; Lincoln locked himself in a room to weep in private, in the aftermath, and his wife was bedridden for weeks with the heaviness of her grief.

Tad recovered. His parents were more lenient towards him, in the following years, and he caused as much mischief as ever, but Washington District noticed that he never seemed to smile as much as he had.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lincoln had four sons, only one of whom survived to adulthood. William died of typhoid fever, likely because of all the water that was drawn from the Potomac for use and consumption in the capital and the armies camped alongside it. Tad suffered some kind of seizure and died at eighteen, after dealing with a number of other illnesses and disabilities in his short life. Edward would have been William and Tad’s older brother, but died shortly before his birthday at the age of three of what was most likely thyroid cancer.
> 
> Washington District is a lonely kind of character, I feel like, though she'd never admit it; she feels like she can't let herself be seen showing emotion because of what she represents as a neutral party, and she feels separated from a lot of her family because she represents the government while they represent the states – it takes a lot for her to fully let down her guard around them. But with kids in the capital, especially the President's kids, she's fond of them. They don't expect the same things out of her as everyone else does, because to them, she's just another child.


End file.
